Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Group Sex and Jazz

Listening to jazz
Her flashes are the only flashes I need to bring me back to life
Called me a broke ass and it hurt because it was true and I know dollar signs are the only things right now adding up for her

Stick your finger in the socket and shoot off like a rocket to uncharted planets
Go ahead and listen, listen till your blue in the face and lemon juice is running down your supple thighs
We started off as strangers, but by the time she was through introducing me to the record collection streaming in her mind I knew we’d been connected long before either one of us called Earth our home

We’re caterpillar astronauts and have a plan of attack that has everything to do with survival and very little to do with greed or gluttony or the self-interest of most cam models or poets
I’ll never forget the first time I entered her from behind and how the noises she made reminded me of a bird sanctuary I’d visited once in Florida
She enjoys being made love to by multiple partners because she said it helped her to cover up a multitude of sins

Reading The Abortion by Richard Brautigan to her is a memory I yearn to create and that’s even before we rob our first bank and refer to one another as Bonnie and Clyde
Chasing our collective blues away by getting lost in a rainbow of colors yet thought of and one final kiss from her full lips that never tell a lie
No clear idea why I am writing these poems for her when she doesn’t seem at all interested in them, but she’s an inspiration and that’s something I refuse to ignore or deny as I turn the page and press play on the jukebox in my hungry mind

Charles Cicirella

Television Screen Breeds Discontent

Been a favorite for a good long while,
But not until last night did I enter her Magic Theatre
I was immediately taken aback by the jive she spread
Like salmon cream cheese on an everything bagel

Her eyebrows caught me by surprise as did her
Big ass that called out to me like a lonely planet
Revolving around a fiery sun
I wanted to reach out and bite it or at the very least
Take shelter beneath its plump and erudite tendencies

Television breeds discontent that’s what all the punks say,
But I tend to disagree because I’ll take entertainment in any form
As long as it distracts me from the everyday grind of pushing away
From another bland crisis in these days of bedlam and bondage

I cannot lie when she mentioned The Celestine Prophecy
I got an erection because I wasn’t use to entering a chatroom
And leaving with more than just sticky hands
She got my brain pumping and my heart thinking as I welcomed
The intrusion because too much melancholia makes Jack a dull boy
And sometimes even a serial killer

Charles Cicirella

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Mental Health

It’s no secret
Been out to lunch since before I can even remember
In fact I remember nothing and nothing is all I’m holding onto

When she appeared before me it took my breath and all of my loose change away
Dressed in her birthday suit and an ability to change according to the seasons, she called my bluff while going beneath the hood and replacing any loose hoses
I believed I was in love, but that’s always been my cross to bear

We live on Flintstones Chewables and our inability to ever finish anything we start
We break beneath the falsified pressure of another cooked election or email hacked for the sake of ridicule and redundancy
Let’s stop jumping for Joy and leave Merry alone because before we know it we’re all going up in a puff of second hand smoke

It’s no secret
I was born with an anchor tied to my ankle and like all ankle-bracelet-babies I’m bound to get mine before the sun sets or gets its teeth kicked in by an envious and devout moon
Ready to deliver the good news before coming to terms with none of the news being all that good and the blood spattered morning just keeps reminding me we’re all doomed

Charles Cicirella

Sunday, April 15, 2018

I don't like knowing your heart has been broken. (For Tamara Rose)

Gonna write you something profound.
To sweep you right off your Dick Van Dyke drop feet.
Gonna swing for the fences and pray I don’t hit a fowl ball.

Moses was delivered like a bad pun to a people with nothing, but
Unleavened time on their half feline, half woman hands.
I wandered around that desert like a Hebrew with a bad head cold,
In need of nurturing and directions to the nearest clean restroom.
A long time ago I stopped being a part of the singles scene because
No one ever seemed much interested in what I coveted like a newborn sun.

I’ve treasured you Tamara Rose since first meeting you
When you and Fred Zaner were dating.
I know he prefers to be called Damon Zex, but I’ve always found
Fred to be more interesting than his arch nemesis Damon.
You were more than his better half. You were the blood that kept
Right on dripping after everyone, including the undead had their say
And left the Temple Mont for a less compromised energy vortex.

I’d like to set up a playdate for our chakras.
I’d like to play a game of Twister with you wearing nothing, but our sarcasm.
I had this dream where I woke up next to you and all that was left was a
Skeleton and that winning smile that keeps me coming back for more
Like an award winning buffet or a Slinky that’s discovered a new spring in its step.

Charles Cicirella

Psychotic Break (Inertia in Spades)

I write words like no one else.
Maybe that’s why no one listens.
Either they cannot hear the brilliance
Or they can and it’s too much
For their outmoded intellects.

Shall we break for tea and break a few skulls?
How do you feel about violence and all the crying silences?
I look forward to when I lay my head down on the
Soaking pillow and either wake up in a daydream or
Not at all.

Some will read these words as depressing when nothing
Could be further from the dislocated truth.
I’m no suicide case, in fact I don’t believe in death wishes
Because when you blow out the birthday candles everything
You wish for rarely comes true and when it does watch out.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen the real you. In fact it has
Been decades since I’ve felt comfortable in my own skin.
Rusty recently asked about Katie Boyd and the poems
I’ve written for her. It’s nice when someone makes more
Than an effort and clearly cares about you.

I write words like no one else and some take notice
While most could give a shit less. Me, I’m just doing my best
To doggy paddle through the wistfulness of when I was a child
and a curfew actually meant more than promises broken.
My heart was open for so long I started to take false positives
For granted.

Charles Cicirella

Saturday, April 14, 2018


Sometimes we fight and argue and that’s how I know we’re really friends because we always come back stronger than we were before.
We’ve known each other for well over fifteen years and I still respect and cherish her as much as I did the very first time we met in that coffeehouse on 5th. Ave.
She bleeds poisoned cupcake poetry with sequined words and pageantries of distorted horn blasts. She doesn’t waste her time with political maneuvering because she knows and feels what’s important and acts on it with every mindful and unmindful step she takes.

Our poetry is vastly different as is our take on most everything, but with those two very dissimilar viewpoints we’ve retaken a photograph of poetic lands yet unchartered or visited by the likes of our terrestrial selves.
Something is burning and I believe it’s the engines of forethought held captive in our brains like molten lava cupcakes or all beef hotdogs smoldering over a remedial campfire of accidental brilliance.
My hands were dirty until she forced them beneath the faucet and washed them clean of dispersion and aspirations of self-inflicted vertigo. I in turn did the same for her by growling litanies of undiminished otherness into her ears of trance and fury.

It’s a lost cause attempting make the world over in our own images because the world has its own plans having little to do with our own blown out birthday candle wishes.
Sometimes she gets me wrong and sometimes I get her right and together what we’re left with is worth more than all the empty words piling up in the parking lots of our unscripted, stagecoach minds.
Poetry is life not only proof of life and if you’re using it to become more popular or to advance your own bullshit cause well then you’re missing the point. Juliet knows this as she leaves corrupted hellcats in her wake and emerges from the incurable flames toasty and totally radicalized on her own terms and frosted terminology.

Charles Cicirella

Friday, April 13, 2018

Untitled Love Poem

I just want someone I can say I love you to, who will say it back to me.

Is that asking too much?

Apparently it is.

Charles Cicirella

Tuesday, April 03, 2018


I will die in a hail of bullets
It’ll happen lickety split
Because the unconscious mind
Must pay for the sins of the undead

Refusing payment will only get you
In a bigger mess because the horror is
Too splendid to foretell and to absurd
To relive

These words are just words and still
They will keep me dry and filled with possibility
Because they come from someplace other
Than this kingdom we could never quite accept as ours

I’ve been a stray dog since before I was even born
My mother’s favorite, I betrayed her for a father who only
Cared about his own skin and never received his children
For the blessing they are

Some bloodbaths are communal, others only beget more violence
When told guns don’t kill people, people kill people
Understand the simplicity of these words and how ignorance
Can just as easily be sprayed like bullets into a person’s flesh

The darkness of night welcomes me like an angelic kiss
A new morning spits me out like uncured meat
You were always my first choice, even and especially when
You hated me for the choices I refused to make

Charles Cicirella